Judgement Day
by Anamakorga
Summary: An attempt to capture the character of Cecil Gershwin Palmer. It keeps spitting acid at me. I think I'm dying. Help.


_**Tastes are dreams that you never woke up from.**_  
 **Welcome to Night Vale.**

Good afternoon, listeners. It sure is an exciting day today! 'Why is it an exciting day?' You ask me. 'Cecil, this day was meant to be completely mundane' You scream in horror, tugging at my fish scale coat. 'Cecil, what have you done?'. Well, dear listener, you seem to have forgotten one of the most important Night Vale holidays! Tomorrow is Judgement Day! It occurs only once every eighty years, sure, but I am ashamed of you! Judgement Day! The day where we are all judged and punished depending on how much contraband we currently own! How could you forget that today is your last day to free yourself from any contraband that you may own? Not that we're accusing you of owning any contraband or anything. Especially not my husband Carlos! He does not have a box of pens on the nightstand next to our bed. If he did, though, I would have spent the past few weeks urging him to burn them all, and he would not have listened to me, even though I am totally right. I'm totally right, right? Riiiight. But Carlos doesn't have any contraband what-so-ever. In fact, I don't think Carlos even needs to be judged! **He's so free of contraband, Night Vale.**

In other news, the shape in Mission Grove Park that no one acknowledges or speaks about has faded from existence, and nobody knows why. We continued not acknowledging and speaking about it. Of course, there are the usual reasons for fading from existence, like forgetting that continued existence takes a lot of energy and not eating a decently-sized breakfast, or being absorbed by a dark planet, lit by no sun, or entering the Dog Park, which, I remind you, only dogs and hooded figures are allowed to be in. Maybe it just got bored with us and left. More on this, if there ever is more on this.

So, I've been getting a lot of calls and telepathic messages asking about Khoshekh, the station cat. Actually, no, I haven't, but, you know, Khoshekh is just so great! Why wouldn't you ask about Khoshekh? Not asking about Khoshekh is a failure on the parts of all of you, and I am disappointed. Anyhow, if you had done the right thing, you would have asked things like "has Khoshekh ever bitten anyone fatally?" The answer is, of course, no. While he has bitten someone and watched them bleed out on the floor, I would just like to point out that blood loss and cat bites are completely different things. Also, that, as Khoshekh is trapped in his hover-spot around four feet above the floor in the men's bathroom, he had no choice but to watch them bleed out, so that **wasn't sadistic at all.** And now, financial news.

Parsley has gone up considerably. Not the cost of parsley. Just...parsley. Parsley is like that. It can never decide what it wants to do. It just goes up, unfeeling. Parsley does not care for your human emotions. Parsley does not care for your human needs. Parsley goes up, and up, and up, and up. It is impossible to stop the parsley. It is impossible to start the parsley. The parsley is not controlled by you. The parsley is not controlled by itself. It is unknown what the parsley is controlled by. Unless it is known. Do you know what the parsley is controlled by? If you know what the parsley is controlled by, run. Run far away. Run far, far away. This has been financial news.

More on this exciting day prior to Judgement Day. Old Woman Josie is currently trying to figure out whether or not the definitely-not-angels currently at her house are contraband or not, which is, admittedly, a good question. Of course, as nobody can legally act as though the angels exist, which they don't- I mean, angels? LIke, whaaaat? Just, um, you know what, ignore everything I just said. Pretend that I never said anything at all. Things? Being said? I don't know what you're talking about! Nobody ever says anything! It's time for a word from our sponsor, don't you think? Yeah, you probably think that.

Stars. All around you are stars. Your family? Stars. Your friends? Also stars. Your entire life is stars. But it feels like there could be more stars. Don't you wish there were more stars in your life? Of course, you do. Everyone likes stars. Why wouldn't you want more stars in your life? If you do not want more stars in your life, there is something terribly wrong with you. Focus on the stars. Become a star.  
Converse All Stars.

The shape that no one acknowledges or speaks about, which was formerly in Mission Grove Park, and now in approximately nowhere, has not had any changes to its status in existence. It still simply does not exist. There is, however, a miniature castle that has appeared where the shape once was. There doesn't appear to be anything strange about this particular castle, other than its smaller-than-average size. The castle is completely furnished, and nobody lives in it. Probably. Nobody lives in it that we've seen, though we didn't actually look very hard. So it's entirely plausible that someone lives inside the miniature castle that sits in the place where the shape in Mission Grove Park that no one acknowledges or speaks about.

Is that- ooh, that's- apologies, listeners. The Sheriff's Secret Police have arrived at the station. Apparently, my talking about totally-non-existent angels earlier was, ahem, misinterpreted. Again, got to remind you that angels are not a thing. I repeat, angels are not a thing! Can they even hear m- ouch. Well.  
To the family of intern Issac, I regret to inform you that he is about to be erased from all records of anything, and you will have to forget he ever existed. In fact, I can't remember what I was just talking about. I have to get my notes in order again, so listeners-

I take you now, to the weather.

* * *

 **Weather - If I Were You - Hoobastank**

* * *

Welcome back, listeners. In the two days that have passed, Judgement Day has come and gone. I - hypothetically - managed to get Carlos to burn the box of pens - which of course, he never had. Unfortunately, hypothetically burning a nonexistent excessively large box of pens usually ends in getting some ink on yourself. Luckily, I know where Carlos is. I just...don't know how to get there. I will get there, though! I will! It will totally be fine! Carlos is so smart and scientific and stuff! Again, there was never a box of pens, _that was **completely hypothetical!** **Give. Him. Back.**_

The shape in Mission Grove Park is back, and it is trying to destroy the castle. Also, apparently the ban on acknowledging and speaking about the shape was still in place while it was gone, so I need to go and hide somewhere.

Stay tuned next for heartbroken madness and the sound of drums.

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.


End file.
